


Fistfight

by whereismygarden



Series: play on, give me excess [8]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Golden Lace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-08
Updated: 2013-05-08
Packaged: 2017-12-10 20:23:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/789782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whereismygarden/pseuds/whereismygarden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lacey's reputation can get her into trouble, and her knight in shining armor isn't exactly conventional. Lacey!Belle and cursed Gold, in cursed Storybrooke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fistfight

**Author's Note:**

> Heed the underage warning if that might upset you.

“Slut!” The shove was enough to send Lacey reeling, but she didn’t fall.

                “You want to say that again?” Cara Vincent was taller than her, but Lacey was strong from years of digging gardens and carrying trays. She doubted Cara had ever had to work a day in her life. “Or do you just want to fight?”

                “Stay away from my boyfriend, you hear me, you bitch?” Lacey laughed, and pushed the other girl when she attempted another shove. Cara stumbled but looked ready to continue.

                “Hey, hey, stop!” Ashley Boyd was suddenly in between them, wrapping her arms around Cara and pulling her back.

                “No, let her try, I’m looking forward to this,” Lacey panted, following them. “Let her go, Ashley, I’m not scared. I haven’t touched her boy.”

                “Liar!” Cara spat, and Ashley found herself staggering back, nearly into a wall, as Cara charged Lacey.

                “You’re paranoi—ow!” Lacey raised a hand to her jaw, then turned and smashed her own fist into the other girl’s cheek. Their fight was attracting attention, for all that they were on an infrequently used street: the one Lacey liked to use as a shortcut between home and her job. Ashley screamed at the distant figure standing where run-down, brown-lawned Orange Lane met one of Storybrooke’s main streets.

                “Hey, come help! Guys, stop it!” Lacey wasn’t sure whether she wanted to simply humiliate Cara or actually beat the living hell out of her for trying to jump her. The girl was a junior in her psychology class and her dangly canary-yellow feather earrings were a tempting target. Lacey settled for gripping her hair and kneeing her in the stomach at the same time, then punching her again. Cara dragged her manicured, overlong fingernails down the side of Lacey’s neck, drawing four lines of blood, fisting her hand in Lacey’s loose curls and rushing her into the side wall of one of Storybrooke’s worse bars. The sharp, confusing pain from smacking her skull on the brick was overwhelming, and Lacey only blinked dumbly at the other girl for a second. Cara kicked her in the shin: the stabbing pain cut through the blurry throbbing in her skull, and she focused on Cara’s face.

                “I don’t want to see you _talking_ to Charles, you little bitch. Go spread your legs for someone else, you nasty slut.”

                Lacey smirked and spat to the side—a clot of blood had pooled in her mouth from her split lip.

                “Next bit goes in your face, you spray-tanned slag.”

                “Goddamn _whore!_ ” Cara kicked at Lacey’s shins, but Lacey managed to kick back a little, still dizzy from the blow to the head.

                “ _Stop!_ ” Ashley’s voice wavered between terrified and panicked. “Cara, you’re going to really hurt her!”

                “Good,” Cara hissed, at the same moment Lacey said,

                “In her fucking dreams!” She planted her sneakered foot in Cara’s stomach, leaned against the wall, and pushed outward. Cara fell so fast she didn’t have time to properly catch herself with her arms, and her head struck the ground, though the dead grass outside the Rabbit Hole provided a little cushion.

                The figure at the end of the street had determined what was happening, and broke into a run, spurred on by Ashley’s yelling. Lacey leaned over and braced herself on her knees, blood and spit dripping from her mouth, head spinning. It was Archie Hopper, Storybrooke’s resident psychiatrist and, in Lacey’s opinion, the stuffiest man she had ever met, who had heard Ashley.

                He bent over Cara, who did appear worse off due to being flat on the ground. Lacey pressed a hand to her bleeding neck and wondered if she should just try and run away, because more people were gathering at the end of the street and heading towards them. Ashley and her stupid noise! And Cara and her impulsive bitchery! Dr. Whale and Mr. Gold were the people headed down the street, she realized, and Ashley was on her cell phone, dialing the sheriff’s station.

                “Excuse me,” Whale hurried Hopper out of the way and took his place next to Cara, who appeared to be crying. Lacey was torn between sneering and being impressed at her bullshitting. The only thing wrong with her was a sore cheekbone and the shock of getting the wind knocked out of her. And a horrible disposition, but there was no cure for that.

                “I’m the one fucking bleeding everywhere over here,” she panted, trying to straighten and realizing she couldn’t, she was too dizzy. She knelt down instead, shaking her head to try and clear it. Dr. Hopper pressed a hand to her back.

                “Lacey, look at me.” She blinked up at him. “How many fingers am I holding up, please?”

                “Two,” she snapped. “I’m fine, just dizzy.”

                “Um, you should probably put your head between your knees,” he continued, blushing a little. Lacey realized she was wearing a very short, tight skirt—it was comfortable purple cotton, one of her favorites—and the nervous doctor no doubt didn’t want to make her _uncomfortable_ by pointing out that it would be indecent to do as he bid. It was sweet, in a pathetic kind of way.

                She heard Gold’s cane click to her left and he crouched down next to her as best as he was able. He wouldn’t have any reservations about her skirt length, at least, though if he thought he was a comforting presence, he was wrong. Something rattled next to her, and she glanced over at him. He had pulled a small white bottle out of his coat pocket.

                “Painkillers, Miss French,” he said. “Very convenient, as they’re easy to swallow without water.” He shook one into her palm. She swallowed it cautiously: it was easy, though an odd feeling, and nodded to him.

                “I’m good at swallowing,” she said in a whisper, and he rolled his eyes.

                “You aren’t that injured, I see,” he said irritably, and got back to his feet. Lacey had to admire the fact that he determinedly avoiding using her shoulder, sticking to the wall and his cane. The same kind of stupid pride that got her into fights down side streets with jealous girls, she thought.

                “Well,” she returned, turning and lifting her hair out of the way so that he could see her neck. He said nothing, but she thought that maybe his eyes tightened at the sight.

                “I think the sheriff’s on his way,” Dr. Whale said from a few feet away. Cara was sitting up, wincing and holding her stomach. At his words, she stiffened and sprang to her feet, looking fearful. “Hey, you need to stay sitting, you’ve hit your head!” the doctor protested.

                “Not as hard as she hit mine,” Lacey interjected, and the doctor finally seemed to notice her, turning around.

                “You better mind what I said, slut,” Cara said warningly to Lacey, making Dr. Hopper twitch his head at her words. Lacey bared her teeth, hoping they were bloody.

                “You better watch your mouth, rumor-spreading hag,” Lacey replied, adding an upraised middle finger for emphasis. Cara sniffed and practically sprinted down the street, not eager for an encounter with Storybrooke’s finest, and only.

                “I would ignore her language—perhaps it’s not best to respond in kind?” Dr. Hopper said gingerly. Lacey raised her eyebrows.

                “Well, if everyone could just ignore what they didn’t like to hear, that would be nice.” Maybe if Cara hadn’t listened to her precious Charles’s story that he’d fucked her at the creek, this wouldn’t have happened. No doubt he had intended it only for his male friends—according to the lot of them, they’d been with half the town—but due to the story involving her, someone had believed it and told Cara. “How about we call off the sheriff, since she’s gone. I’m certainly not going to press any charges.”

                In the end, Sheriff Graham had showed up, tsked over her bruises and cut lip, and written down some notes. Lacey wondered if any report would really be filed.

                “No names, since you’re both minors,” he assured her. “Since you seem fine, and she’s not here.” Lacey had tossed her hair back over her neck, and neither the doctors nor the sheriff had noticed the cuts.

                “Are you okay?” Ashley squeaked beside her. “Ruby’s going to kill me for letting you into trouble!” Lacey waved her off.

                “I can drive you back to your house, if you like,” Sheriff Graham offered. Lacey shook her head. A walk home in the dimming light would clear her head.

                “Let me,” Gold cut in smoothly. “I’m sure you’re quite busy, sheriff.” The man in question looked a little shocked at Gold’s generosity, but raised his hands in surrender.

                “Sure, if it’s not too much trouble,” he agreed. Lacey scowled and shrugged off Whale’s arm around her shoulders.

                “I can walk fine, and I don’t need a ride,” she snapped. She wanted to put ice on her head and lie down for the rest of the evening.

                “I insist,” Gold said tightly, opening the passenger door for her.

                “You shouldn’t walk,” Dr. Whale agreed. “You need to rest.” Lacey bit back an unkind comment and sat ungraciously in Gold’s car. He shut the door for her, like the perfect gentleman he wasn’t, and walked around to the other door.

                “I don’t want a ride,” Lacey said, the second he sat down. He smiled thinly, handing her his cane and starting the engine.

                “I am aware of how wary you seem to be of accepting rides from me.” Lacey wrinkled her nose at him.

                “It’s not you, Mr. Gold. I just hate cars.” Indeed, despite the comfortable seats in his, she could barely settle enough to fasten the belt. The ceiling was pressing down on her, and she stared straight ahead, focusing on what she could see of Storybrooke through the front windshield.

                “You ride with your friend Ruby,” he commented.

                “We keep the windows all the way down when I ride with her,” she said softly, and gritted her teeth for the rest of the ride back to her father’s apartment. The windows were dark: he usually went straight from the shop to the sports bar for several rounds and a dinner of peanuts and cheap chips.

                Gold followed her inside, not waiting for her invitation, and walked down the hall to her bathroom.

                “Come on, Miss French,” he said. Lacey blinked, flabbergasted.

                “What the hell are you doing?”

                “ _I’m_ going to clean your neck, since you didn’t want the good doctor doing it.” Lacey shook her head, smiling slightly. He was an odd man.

                “I can clean my own neck,” she told him, seated on the counter while he sponged at her cuts with a warm washcloth.

                “Of course,” he said, sounding some blend of focused and tired. “It’s a crime to help you.” She hissed as he spread some white cream he had found under their sink over the cuts. “It’s just an antibiotic cream, dearie, don’t panic.” It was probably years out of date, because she’d never bought any, and she’s done the shopping for years.

                His hands were gentle, though, as he taped some bandages to her neck and fetched ice for her skull, and Lacey felt something stir in her at the almost-kind look in his eyes. Clutching the ice to the back of her head, she circled the tiny, messy living room, where Gold sat comfortably on the couch, watching her, and flicked the radio on. Apparently she couldn’t be alone with him without thinking about how damn _good_ he had been. Music would be a good distraction. Something rhythmic and rocky was playing. The first line she heard was _lose your cool in public_ , and she almost burst out laughing there and then.

                “So you didn’t start the fight?” Gold asked, voice half a purr, half a growl.

                _I want you to be crazy ‘cause you’re boring baby when you’re straight, I want you to be crazy ‘cause you’re stupid baby when you’re sane_

                “Nope,” she said, trying to study his eyes, but she was distracted by the way he was sitting wide-legged and comfortable on her couch. His suits really did flatter him—oh, she would be damned if she was going to notice things like that. “Do you want to fuck me?” He raised his eyebrows, smirking a little.

                “Do you want to fuck me?” he asked, studying the handle of his cane easily. “You’ve just been in a fight.”

                “It gets my blood up,” she said, and wondered if it was true, if that was to blame rather than just his presence.

                “Oho, does it now?” He was truly smirking at this, a filthy grin that went straight to her groin. “Well then, I can’t leave you wanting.” He stood and walked up to her, running his hand down her side and curling his fingers around her hip. “Fetch us some protection, won’t you? I know you have some on hand.” Lacey sucked her breath in as he squeezed her buttock through her skirt and pressed his hips against hers, then pulled away and hurried into her bedroom. She had a box tucked away in her nightstand, nominally hidden from her father, though the day he cared about her sexual habits would be an interesting day indeed. Then again, coming home to find her fucking Gold would try even his willful blindness.

                He was holding the two pillows from the couch in his free hand when she returned, holding up the foil condom package between two fingers. He tossed both of them onto the table in the kitchen and Lacey felt her mouth curl into a hungry smile. Gold might be an infuriating prick, with his smugness and eerily calm air, but he wasn’t boring.

                “What’s the plan?” she asked, raising an eyebrow and glancing at the table, then looking him over. He was getting hard, she was glad to see, because even if he was probably fifty, if he wasn’t getting off from all this, she would be embarrassed. He was only acting calm, as usual.

                “You’ve hit your head, remember?” He motioned for her to walk over to the table, then dragged her close to him, so that she was pressed against him, her back to his chest, and, oh, now she could _feel_ his arousal. She smiled and rocked back against him, and heard him take in a sharp breath. “I don’t want you to strain yourself.” He pushed her forward, so that she was bent over the table, belly and face pressed against the pillows, and pushed her skirt up, bunching it around her waist.

                “Same to you,” she returned, then bit her lip and pressed the side of her face into the pillow as his clever fingers found her clit through her knickers, pressing against it lightly, while he rocked his hips against her.

                It was nice, resting her head and elbows on the table, while Gold teased at her, dipping his fingers into her occasionally, spreading the slick moisture over her clit.

                “You don’t have to be quiet this time, Lacey,” he growled in her ear, rubbing himself against her, one hand between her legs, one bracing his body over hers. It was almost an embrace, his weight not touching her, but his heat still palpable over her. “I think I’d like to hear you screaming.”

                “Would you?” she gasped, as he dragged her underwear over her hips and let it drop to the floor, and she heard him undo his belt and trousers as he pulled away from her for a second.

                “Very much,” and for a moment, she was left without his touch and heard the wrapper ripping. Then his wet fingers and the blunt head of his cock were pushing at her entrance, and he was bent over her, breathing hard.

                “You first,” she said, and he eased himself inside her, returning his fingers to her little bud of hungry nerves, groaning as he sunk fully inside. “You can scream too.” She had never done it like this, though Ruby’s jokes about doggy-style usually made her laugh.

                Gold’s fingers pressed at her more insistently, and he pulled half out and slammed into her, with a muted growl.

                “Oh, oh,” she gasped, toes curling as he pushed her up the slope to her release. He hummed over her, sounding smug even through the cresting waves of pleasure.

                “Come on, Lacey, come for me,” Gold whispered, pushing faster and harder, and she groaned into her pillow, fingers scratching at the wood of the table as her vision darkened and legs twitched, as the shivery pleasure spread through her body. “ _There_ you are.” She shrieked at the climax, his fingers still rubbing at her, his breath at her neck.

                He finished a minute or so after her—she wasn’t exactly sure—grunting with every thrust, one hand still next to her, the other gripping her hip. His thrusting turned erratic at the end, harder, and he ended with a moan pressed to the back of her neck.

                “You’re okay?” he asked, pulling out slowly, and Lacey giggled. There was softness underneath all his cold smugness and superior air that she liked all the more because it was hard to see.

                “Skull intact,” she assured him, and stood up languidly. He was removing the condom unabashedly, half-hard, and he looked little like the frightening landlord of Storybrooke’s nightmares with his trousers around his ankles. Of course, she was a picture of trashiness too: her knickers on the floor, skirt dragged up, bruised face. “Don’t we make a pretty picture?”

                He was dressed and neat in a minute, the condom wrapped in paper and tossed in the wastebasket. Lacey sank down onto the couch, decent again, regarding him with sleepy eyes.

                “You’re good,” she admitted. She never said things like that—well, once she had teased him, but that was teasing. She didn’t say it softly or earnestly, and she regretted the words the moment they left her lips. Gold would never let her live it down. He only smiled, an odd half-quirk of his lips, and shook his head.

                “You’re a little dizzy still,” he said, not gloating over her moment of weakness, and touched her hair almost affectionately as he picked up his cane and walked out.

                Her father came home a few hours later, when she had showered off Gold’s scent—leather and forest and spicy tea—and put some less obvious bandages on her neck, to find her with ice pressed to her head and the scent of cigarettes heavy in the air.

                “What the hell happened to you?” he asked, managing, barely, to sound concerned. Lacey just shook her head and adjusted the ice pack, eyes resting on the ashtray on the newspaper- and magazine-piled coffee table. The apartment was dirty and cluttered with stupid trinkets, and she wondered, for a second, if she was just another trinket that Gold wanted to collect. And what if she was? She was fine—except when it led to being jumped down side streets—with people from school acting like she was a prize to claim, for a night.

                Because he had walked into her home and washed her cuts, then fucked her while refusing to look her in the eye, then hastened to check if she was alright when he finished, then hardly said a word when he left.

                She pressed the ice harder into her aching skull, reasoning that she _was_ still a little dizzy from the blow, and that explained her being out of sorts.

**Author's Note:**

> The song on the radio is "Cheap and Cheerful" by the Kills: one of the first songs that I wanted to include in this series, so I'm glad it finally got in.


End file.
